Comings and Goings, poem by Pamela Johnson Parker

Off High­way 106
At Cher­ry­log
I go at noon to meet
This boy that dri­ves
His daddy’s beat-up
Indi­an, a Chief,
A hand-me-down like most
Of Mama’s clothes,
(Passed to me long after

She passed). When we’re
At school, Jim don’t—no,
Doesn’t–know my name,
Just swags on by with­out
A by-your-leave;
Some big-shot boy, his tee
Shirt sleeves twice rolled,
A Par­lia­ment unlit
Hung from his lip,

A red cloth jack­et when
The weather’s cool.
(A Geor­gia guy that smokes
A fil­tered cig?
Can you believe? What’s wrong
With Chester­fields?)
I know about James Dean
That drove a Porsche,
A Tri­umph motor­bike,

An Indi­an
500, not some wired-
Round piece of tin
That whines and whinges. Half
A mile away,
I hear him com­ing, squall
Of tires and all.
I’d rather ride my Schwinn.
Back of the barn,

Than that. “And just because
Your name’s James D.
Don’t mean that you’re a star”
(Or doesn’t mean).
I’ll tell him lat­er. First
I’ll make him wait
And wait and wait, because
I told him noon.
“You always make men sit,

Then get right up
When you waltz in the room
Like Mar­i­lyn,”The Con­fi­den­tial says. Now,
I’m not too much
A tease; I’d just as lief
Talk car­bu­re­tors,
Plugs, lug wrench­es, hot-
Wired starts, almost

Any­thing than flirt. But try
To tell a fel­low
One fact—sprockets, stock cars,
Or even names
Of snakes…A boy from town’s
All hands, no ears,
When tus­sling in that spring-
Sprung Pierce Arrow
A ’34 stalled out among

Junked cars, in what
Jim likes to call park­ing
Lot of the dead.
That’s poet­ry.Well, bone
Yard’s more the word,
If you ask me, picked-
Over field, where
I can glean, like Ruth,
What’s left behind.

II. Dad­dy

The lay­ing on of hands
Is taught in church,
Along with strych­nine
In a may­on­naise jar
(I still see the label’s
Gum­my trace—Blue Plate),

And rat­tlers coiled like
Sis­ter Hattie’s hair.
You’ve stropped me for not
Lis­ten­ing straight
Through, again the lay­ing
On of hands, rod

Not spared, my back­side
Not spared nei­ther.
My skin is welt­ed red,
And marks are raised
Like rick­rack round an apron’s
Edge—a hem

To hem me in. When Jim’s
With me, I’m hemmed
In that same way. Some­times
He’ll sing a hymn
Of rat­tles, sighs, and snuf­fles,
High notes all,

Notes I can’t quite reach,
I’m more alto
In shape-note singing, more
The har­mo­ny.
I hold the mea­sure low,
And Jim holds me

Pamela John­son Park­er is an adjunct pro­fes­sor of human­i­ties and poet­ry at Mur­ray State Uni­ver­si­ty and a full-time med­ical edi­tor. Her fic­tion, poet­ry, nd cre­ative non­fic­tion have appeared in Anti-, Poets and Artists, New Madrid, Mus­ca­dine Lines, A Jour­nal of the South, Iron Horse, Broad­sided, Cen­trifu­gal Eye, Blue Fifth Review, and qar­rt­silu­ni. her poet­ry is includ­ed in Best New Poets 2011 and Poets on Paint­ings. A final­ist for this year’s Bruck­heimer Award from Sara­bande Press, Pamela lives in west­ern Ken­tucky.